


One Wing of Silence

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Variations on a Death [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Break Up, Character Death Fix, Coulson Lives, Fix-It, Grieving, M/M, Nick Fury is a friend, Ronin Clint Barton, Secret Identity, Secrets, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Recrimination, Variations on a theme, how many ways can I write the same story?, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21811375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: First in my Variations on a Death series, a collection of one-shots that (re)vision and (trans)form Coulson's death in The Avengers.Clint's been busy taking care of Nick Fury's business since the Battle of New York and hasn't had a chance to grieve for his ex-lover, Phil Coulson. Their relationship may have ended in anger and recriminations, but he still loves Phil. So when Nick asks for one more favor, how can Clint say no?
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: Variations on a Death [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571656
Comments: 44
Kudos: 217





	One Wing of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series I'm calling "Variations on a Death." Each one-shot will start with Phil's death in The Avengers and recast/reconfigure in all sorts of different plots. Some will be happy, some fix-its, some sad, and some ... well, who knows? My goal is to play in the same sandbox, build then knock down and build again. Each will be numbered, like Adrienne Rich's Twenty-one Love Poems or Neruda's Love sonnets.

_ You must know that I do not love and that I love you,  _

_ because everything alive has its two sides;  _

_ a word is one wing of silence, fire has its cold half.  _

_ I love you in order to begin to love you,  _

_ to start infinity again and never to stop loving you:  _

_ that’s why I do not love you yet.  _

_ I love you, and I do not love you, _

_ as if I held keys in my hand: to a future of joy- a wretched, muddled fate-  _

_ My love has two lives, in order to love you.  _

Pablo Neruda, from Sonnet XLIV

  
  
  


Clint pushed open the door and wove through a gaggle of sales clerks holding fast to their cups of caffeinated goodness and white waxed paper bags with morning pastries; still on Bangladeshi time, he’d arrived as the coffee shop was packed with the pre-work rush for Macy’s and Bergdoff’s down the street. Too many hours on too many flights, he could barely remember what day it was much less count time zones; crashing on Natasha’s couch was next on his to-do list now that he was back in the city. Even better, she was out-of-town on some hush-hush mission thing, so he could go comatose for twenty hours and no one would miss him.

He eyed the line to order, debated how much he needed a fix, decided to wait until the steady herd of customers thinned out. Then, he saw the plaid tam and pair of dark glasses at a table in the back corner. Fury didn’t wave, didn’t even look his way, but Clint honed in on the two cups in front of his boss and made a beeline to the empty chair with a navy peacoat hanging off the back. Dropping into the seat, he grabbed one, drank a long swallow heedless of the temperature, then let out a long sigh. 

“God, I needed this.” He took another drink. 

“You look like shit.” Fury slid the other coffee Clint’s way. “When’s the last time you slept?” 

“Eleven hours delayed in Lisbon Portela only to be squeezed between a grandma who chewed garlic cloves and a Fuller brush salesman He didn’t shut up for the whole nine-hour flight.” Clint took the small box from his pocket, flipped it over so the bloody fingerprint was on the bottom, and put it on the table. “But I didn’t forget your Arcadia chocolates; had plenty of time to shop in the duty-free.” 

The small rectangle disappeared in Fury’s pocket and Clint was damn glad to let him have it; maybe now he wouldn’t feel the itch between his shoulder blades quite so much, the constant worry of a sniper on a rooftop with a bead on his back. Damn well better be worth it, whatever was on that drive; Clint had gone to hell and back to get it and, considering Fury had sent Clint deep under and completely off the books, the info was probably explosive. Maybe literally -- Clint had known Nick for a long time, enough to know he would burn the world down if bad guys messed with him. And the last few months had been one clusterfuck after another, starting with that bastard Loki stepping through a portal in space and taking over Clint’s mind. 

“Aw, man, that’s mighty white of you.” That was Fury through and through, even if he was dressed like a hipster. “Really appreciate it, you going out of your way to pick them up.”

“No problem.” Clint took the first sip from the second cup; it was sweeter with a hint of cinnamon. “I still owe you twenty or so.” 

“Yeah, about that.” Nick dug his hand in his jeans pocket and pulled out a key. “Got one more thing I need you to do for me.” 

He laid it on the table and Clint saw the red circles, blue center and white star; it took his sleep-starved brain a few seconds to make the connection.

“No.” He didn’t know what Nick wanted, but he knew exactly what that key opened. “I’m the last person you should hand that over to.” 

“You’re the only one who can do it.” Nick looked over the top of his shades, his one good eye staring at Clint. “Council’s watching the place; anyone coming or going is noted and logged. There’s still some of your shit in the back of the closet.” 

“He made it clear we were over,” Clint argued. “In no uncertain terms.” 

Nick sighed. “You know, for the smartest, most badass men I know, you screwed up royally in your private lives. Never saw more compatible people fuck up a good thing.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard this song before.” Clint sat back in his chair, putting distance between himself and the key. “Be open and honest, talk to each other… coming from you, that advice is rich Your secrets have secrets.” 

“Why I don’t bother trying; not a soul out there who’d put up with my shit.” 

“You should know why me going into his apartment is a bad idea. Not only was I not good enough for him …” 

“Your verdict, not his,” Nick interjected. 

“... okay, not only am I confident that he deserved better than an amoral asshole like me, but I also happen to be the person who killed …” 

“Don’t give me that shit,” Nick practically growled. “That little pantywaist motherfucker is to blame.” 

“... I’m also the person who led the distraction so the M.F. could kill him. Hell, the Council put me on permanent psych watch; they already think I’m a couple fries short of a happy meal.”

“Exactly why you’re the perfect person for this job,” Nick explained. 

“Ex-lover gone crazy breaks in and sobs into Phil’s old ranger shirt?” Understanding dawned. “If, while I’m there, I slip out whatever you need in my box of junk ...” 

“That’s to be expected. Part of the grieving process, moving on with your life. Been some murmuring about when we’re going to see your face on the carrier again, people wondering about the whole ‘getting his head together’ cover. Two birds, one stone; family’s making all kinds of noises about cleaning the place out, and I’m running out of excuses why we’re letting a company apartment stand empty. They’re still pissed off about the cremation even though Phil’d made his wishes clear.” 

“No love lost there.” Clint had never gotten along with Phil’s family; they had no idea of S.H.I.E.L.D. and what their son actually did for a living, and they’d side-eyed hard Clint the two times he’d come to visit. “Not sure what there is in the place they’d want; they disapproved of his collections. You could have just donated it all.” 

“Been a little busy,” Nick said. “Keeping our heads above water. Staying out of the spotlight.” 

The World Security Council had been on a tear since the Chitauri attack; exerting their power to launch the plane with the nuke exposed just how far other interests had gotten inside S.H.I.E.L.D. In the days after Tony flew the rocket through the portal, Nick had rounded up the few people he trusted implicitly and quietly started looking for moles and outright double agents. Maria was manning the internal detective work, tracing through back channels and personnel files. Natasha had gone after Hawley and Rockwell while Clint took Yen and Singh, digging at their public personas to find the dirt underneath, uncovering as much leverage as they could. The drive Clint had dragged halfway across the world was hopefully enough to do just that. 

“And it’s got to be me?” Clint tried not to let the whine slip into his voice. His exhaustion was bone-deep and he’d been running from the truth of Phil’s death, still not ready to deal with it. 

“You’re level seven,” Nick came back. “Besides, I happen to know Phil never removed your prints and eye pattern from the security system; that’s pretty much an open invitation on his part.” 

“He didn’t?” Clint couldn’t imagine why; after the last argument, Phil had explicitly said he never wanted to see Clint again. Well, he’d said he didn’t want to see Clint until Clint was ready to really talk about their problems, but that was close enough. There was no way Clint was going to share his dark side with a good man like Phil Coulson. 

“Said you might need a safe place one day. Something about the washer on the spin cycle which makes no Goddamn sense to anyone but the two of you.” Nick snorted. “Always did have your own language.” 

“Example forty-two for why Phil was the best of all of us.” Clint felt the familiar pang of loss; it was so like Phil to remember one little detail he’d told him years ago. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll be obvious, even stop by the carrier, so everyone knows I’m back.” 

“Drop by R & D; Tena’s been working on some new arrow designs. Asks me every week about how you’re doing,” Fury said. “Think she might have a thing for you.” 

“Sorry to break the news but she’s got the hots for older men in black leather; that’s why she always comes to you with her questions,” Clint smirked. “You should ask her out; she’d say yes.” 

“Don’t you start; worst matchmakers ever, you and …” He paused. Even behind the dark lens, Clint could see the flinch. “Seriously, it’s time. This thing goes deeper than any of us thought; gonna need you and your both your skill sets to root it out.” 

Clint raised an eyebrow, the implication clear. He had no qualms about resurrecting old identities; what difference did it make if Ronin showed his mask again? Phil was gone; there was no one to hide his bloody hands from anymore. And if anyone deserved retribution of the sword, the bastards behind that nuke were on the top of Clint’s list. 

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Clint assured Nick. “Assuming I get to sleep for 48 hours before we go on the rampage.” 

“Not in that big of a hurry; hell, take the whole week. And for God’s sake, take a shower. Or two. You smell like goat.” 

“I’ll have you know that herd saved my life.” Clint curled his fingers around the key ring; the edge of the shield fit in his palm. “Gertrude was especially helpful.” 

“I don’t want to know, just don’t stash her in Nat’s place; she’ll kill us both.” Nick pushed his glasses up. “Get it all; the safe in the kitchen as well as the one in the closet.”

“I will,” Clint promised.

**ONE HOUR LATER**

He fully intended to take a few days, shower, sleep, get his equilibrium back. Long missions sapped more than his energy; when he let the violence out, it took time and effort to shove all the sharp edges away again, to slip back into his civilized suit. One of the things they’d fought about was Clint’s disappearing act, as Phil called it; wasn’t so much that Clint needed time alone, but that he wouldn’t talk about what he did or why he needed to do it.

It wasn’t until he was climbing the stairs… the elevator was out-of-order like always… that he realized he hadn’t made a conscious decision, that his feet had just taken him off the subway at the right stop, past the Thai place and the corner bodega, and in the front door of Phil’s building. Four flights up, and memories flooded his brain as he came to a stop in front of the familiar door. The first time he showed up, uninvited, limping from a sprained ankle -- any landing you crawl away from is a good one -- uncertain of his welcome. Juggling grocery bags when Phil was sick, bringing all the makings of chicken noodle soup. Dressed to the nines in his finest suit, tugging at his tie, late for an anniversary dinner reservation. Standing on the welcome mat, biting his lip, some many words unsaid battering his brain, thinking of how to apologize after another fight. 

Had they been happy? Clint had thought so, at least as much as was possible given his propensity for fucking up even the simplest things. So used to taking the tiniest crumbs and making do, he hadn’t known what to do with Phil’s adoration; hell, he’d said Clint was perfect and that was so far from the truth that doubts wormed their way into the relationship, cracking the foundation laid by friendship. 

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Phil had promised. “I know there are things in your past; it’s okay” but it really hadn’t been, not when the past was Clint’s very real, very dark present that hung between them.

“Clint?” The older woman stuck her head out of the next apartment. “Is that you, dear?” 

“Yeah, Ms. Gardner, it’s me.” He shook himself free of the recriminations and smiled at the neighbor. “Just here to pick up a few things before ... before Phil’s family closes out the place.” 

“Oh.” Her face fell, thick glasses slipped down her nose. “I’m so, so sorry, you know. Phil was a lovely man, so very kind. I always hoped you two would get back together; he smiled so much when you were around.”

The last thing Clint wanted to do was take a turn down memory lane with her; she was quiet and baked amazing snickerdoodles, but he didn’t have the energy to deal with her. 

“I’m sorry too,” he finally settled on saying as he put the key in the lock, pressing his fingers to the plate around it. The door clicked twice then he turned his wrist and opened it “Um, I’ve got to …” 

“Of course,” she nodded. “You take all the time you need; I remember packing up Patricia’s things. Took me weeks.” 

He ducked in without an answer; once the door was shut behind him, the security panel scanning his eyes before turning green, he leaned against it, out of breath as if he’d run across three roofs with bullets biting at his heels. The darkness was almost complete, just the winking of the keypads by the hallway and in the kitchen, windows covered with steel shutters that blanked out any of the wan grey light from outside. A stale smell filled his nose, dull recirculated air heavy with disuse. With a flick, he turned on the lamps by the couch, illuminating the small space with a warm yellow glow. 

The couch was in the same spot, taking up most of the living area, enough room to walk behind it and the simple wooden coffee table between it and the wall, TV centered between the windows. The other chair, the one they’d bought together during a weekend trip to New England, Clint laughing about the terrible rose chintz worn thin in places, and recovered with a grey microsuede that was soft and warm to cuddle up in on a cold winter day, was in the front corner, in front of the largest of the three bookshelves that covered the rest of the wall space. 

The bar into the tiny kitchen was completely clean. Clint didn’t think he’d ever seen it without the espresso machine and coffee maker that had claimed most of the counter real estate. Gone too was the Captain America cookie jar where Phil stored his extra ammo clips and, now that he looked, a number of other things were missing. A framed cover of Fleetwood Mac’s  _ Rumors, _ the one Phil had gotten signed after he saved Stevie Nicks’ life that one time. The Howling Commando era goggles Phil had dug up in an old S.H.I.E.L.D. warehouse. The crocheted afghan that Phil kept on the back of the couch. 

Intrigued, Clint opened the first door on his left, the one that led into what was far too generously called a second bedroom, and scanned the shelves of books and other memorabilia. The comic storage boxes were gone. Phil must have made arrangements with someone else after Clint left; storing them safely and taking them to a reputable dealer was one of the things on Phil’s ‘when I died’ list, but there were at least a dozen other empty spots. The pegboard with all of Phil’s pins including the Peggy Carter S.S.R. one. The 1965 slipcovered first printing of  _ The Lord of the Rings _ Phil had gotten as a birthday gift from his uncle. All items that, if Clint had been asked, were not the most valuable, but meant the most to Phil. It didn’t surprise Clint that Nick might have sent someone in to pack up a few items… Phil was his oldest friend after all… but the specificity of what was taken was puzzling. Who would want a plastic Cap action figure from the 80s, removed from the box and played with by one young Phil Coulson? 

The conundrum had him checking the rest of the apartment, earlier unease forgotten. One question was answered by the bare fridge and pantry; the cleaning crew had been in and, judging by the relatively thin layer of dust, still swept the place. The garbage cans, even the lint screen on the dryer, were all empty. In the bathroom, the medicine cabinet held only generic painkillers, cold meds, and standard bandages; no toothbrush or comb that might yield DNA was in evidence. Half-a-bottle of dandruff shampoo and some unscented gel were perched on the tile ledge in the shower, a towel over the warming bar. Phil’s aftershave was still there; Clint couldn’t resist unscrewing the cap to find the smell of sandalwood was fainter than he remembered. 

That just left the bedroom; he hesitated, hand on the knob, eyes drawn to the nicks in the wood gouged in by his uniform buckles as Phil had pressed him against it, too eager to take the final few steps inside. Thoughts of the first time he’d spent the night… almost four years ago… waking up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and frying bacon… Phil always joked about Clint’s appetite after sex … sliding between the Egyptian cotton sheets and patchwork quilt… he’d never had a grandmother to make him things … and wrapping around Phil’s warmth as they settled into sleep. 

He jerked himself back to the present and went into the big room with windows on two walls; the corner location was why Phil bought this unit, that and the expanded walk-in closet the last owners had put in, taking space from the other bedroom for one of those fancy shelves and drawer units. With ruthless efficiency, Clint went through them one by one, shoving away the sense memories that assailed him. Phil’s underwear… boxers neatly folded, all but the Captain America pair Clint gave him as a gag gift their first Christmas.. Plain white undershirts… hangers filled with finely starched and pressed dress shirts, but no blue with the tiny grey pinstripe or the bespoke by that London tailor from an undercover op. Suits organized by color… no trace of the black Dolce & Gabbana and the Greenfield summerweight herringbone. The most conspicuous absences were the ratty  _ I’m a Pepper! _ t-shirt Phil claimed he wore in high school, the super-soft Ranger shirt, and Phil’s prized Knicks jersey. Far too specific for coincidence, the items pushed Clint to the top shelf in the back where a box that once held copy paper had his name scrawled on the side. Taking it down, he sat on the edge of the bed and popped off the lid. 

When he’d moved out after the last big blow up, he’d cleared out his two drawers and ten hangers of clothes by dumping them in a backpack; the rest of his things, he’d left in his rush to get away from Phil’s disappointed stares and stony silence. Then Phil mentioned he’d boxed up the rest, to come and get them any time, but in the six months that followed between screaming that Phil was better off without him and Loki’s scepter touching his chest, Clint never made it by. The necessities turned up on Clint’s doorstep, or technically Natasha’s since Clint was crashing there. All but this one lone rectangle of cardboard filled with the detriments of their relationship. 

Soft grey cotton greeted his fingertips; a sob caught in Clint’s throat as he caught it in his rough palms and buried his face in the folds. Tears gathered in the corner of his eyes, and he blinked once then twice to clear them. It took far too many breaths to shove the grief back into its carefully prescribed pocket, but he managed, slowly laying the Ranger shirt on the pillow and going through the rest of the contents. A couple of kohl pencils, two pairs of crew socks… the bow and arrow cufflinks Phil had bought him to wear with his rented tux at Jasper’s wedding… a half-ground down whetstone, three old cassette tapes, and his DVD of Errol Flynn’s  _ Robin Hood _ . The missing two books from  _ The Song of Fire and Ice _ trilogy. Jim Butcher’s  _ Storm Front _ that Clint had loaned Phil during the op in Bratislava and had come back with bloodstains on the back pages. A couple of files filled with old paperwork, pay stubs and out-of-date medical forms. 

And, at the bottom, a series of photos, taken during a weekend of downtime in a tiny town in the south of France when he and Phil and Nat had a lovely villa to themselves, right on the English sea, and nothing to do but drink wine, eat amazing food and relax. He picked up the one where Phil was smiling, shirt half unbuttoned, bare feet in the sand, the wind whipping his hair and stared at the frozen moment, the happiness in his eyes mirrored in Phil’s. With trembling fingers, he traced the edge of the paper and wondered how he’d ever let it all go so wrong or if they’d been doomed from the very beginning. Was there ever a chance someone like Phil could accept him, blood and death and Ronin and all? 

Clint would never know the answer to that; he’d made sure of it when he led that attack on the helicarrier. 

He dropped the photo and tumbled the rest in after it, all the last bits and bobs of a life he was never meant to have. That should be just about everything except… he turned the books on their ends to read their spines one more time. The slim hardback wasn’t there, a used leather-bound volume Phil had found in a second-hand store in Cordoba and given him, complete with a loving inscription and underlined passages. He looked again then jumped up and went into the living room, surveying the shelves there but not finding it. Not in the other bedroom either, Clint began opening drawers to no avail.

“What did you do with it?” Clint wondered aloud. 

There were only three places left to check. Clint’s wounded nerves were worn thin, the exhaustion making him more vulnerable to what-ifs and might have beens. Best to get it done with, he thought. 

The weapons safe in the master closet was almost empty; only a simple Walther PPK, the kind of firearm a New Yorker might have on hand for protection, was in its place. It was Phil’s personal gun, one he kept oiled and in good working order. Behind the winter comforter was the main safe; inside were a number of documents, a small pouch of coins, a pocket day planner, and three jump drives, each carefully labeled. Flipping through them quickly, Clint put back the deed to the apartment, all the information on Phil’s retirement fund and tax returns. The coins were collectibles from wheat pennies to JFK silver dollars and a whole run of Captain America quarters; those too he put back. The drives he pocketed even though they seemed innocuous enough… one said photo backup, another official doc backup, and the third financial planning backup. The planner he kept too; the squares for each day were filled with numbers and letters, some kind of code. Phil loved cryptography, so it could be nothing more than memories or doctor’s appointments, but that was up to the S.H.I.E.L.D. folks to figure out. 

Picking up the box, he stopped in the kitchen, opened the corner bottom cabinet and shifted the lazy susan so he could press the button under the back edge of the countertop. A portion of the backsplash above the stove slid back, revealing a handprint scanner; until the light turned green, Clint wasn’t sure it would work. This had been Phil’s stash; Clint had never had access. He had any number of his own go bags and lockboxes he’d never told anyone about much less let someone else see what was inside. He’d never asked about his one and hadn’t looked, had let Phil have his space. Now he saw two shelves, almost empty except for an envelope with his name typed on it tucked inside a familiar book. 

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed as he stroked the leather spine. The pages fell open, the letters underlined in blue ink. 

_ Absence is a house so transparent  _

_ that I, lifeless, will see you, living,  _

_ and if you suffer, my love,  _

_ I will die again. _

“Jesus.” Clint fumbled the pages and almost dropped it; another passage caught his eye. 

_ In this part of the story,  _

_ I am the one who dies, the only one,  _

_ and I will die of love, because I love you,  _

_ because I love you, Love, in fire and blood. _

Tears rose again and he couldn’t stop them rolling down from the corner of his eyes; he slammed the book closed then flipped up the unsealed flap and pulled out a high tech key card, the smooth grey surface lacking any marks. 

“What the fuck, Phil? What does this open?” 

A beep and lights flashed on the security panel as voices sounded outside in the hallway. Quickly, Clint closed the safe, the motion shifting the wall and cabinet shelves back into place. He tossed the book into his box, shoved the rest in his pocket, and drew his gun as the door swung inward. 

“... get paid until the 3rd of the month and HR didn’t tell us,” the woman was saying, her head turned towards the younger man behind her as they came in. “Robert’s rent payment bounced because he had it automatically deducted… oh!” She pulled up short in the face of Clint’s muzzle aimed her way. “Agent Barton!” 

He kept the gun steady. “Identify yourself,” he ordered. 

“Right, yes, we don’t usually …” the woman fumbled with her words. 

“Edwin Martinez, level two, housekeeping. Delta seven eight tango four,” the man spoke up. 

“Marva Oblensik, level three, housekeeping,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt. If we’d known, we wouldn’t have bothered you but I have to say I’m glad to see you up and about. Never believed those rumors; damn Council wants us to forget they tried to nuke New York, well, not me. I saw the damn thing go right by the window of the apartment I was sheltering in. They’re idiots, every one of ‘em.” 

“Marva, he probably knows that already,” Edwin said, putting his bucket of cleaning supplies down. “You need a few more minutes? We can grab a cup of coffee if you do.” 

“Nah, I’m done.” Clint tucked his gun away and picked up the box. “Just came to get this and see the place once more. Family’s coming soon to close it down.” 

“I just said that, didn’t I, Eddie? That it was time,” Marva said. “Good thing you’re feeling well enough to get some closure, Agent Barton. Terrible, all of it, that Asgardian and the aliens and battle and poor Coulson. I cleaned his office, you know, for three years. Always chatted, remembered my birthday …” she sniffled “... he was the best of the best.” 

“Yeah, he was.” The lump rose in Clint’s throat, his eyes filled, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “Look, I’ll get out of your hair just ... “ his voice was rough and caught on the words “... there’s some stuff missing, some of Phil’s collectibles, and I thought you might know where they went? There were a couple of things …” Clint cleared his throat “... sentimental value, you understand?” 

“Oh, honey, I don’t know,” Marva looked at her colleague. “Eddie, were you in on the first sweep? I think that was the security team that came in right after.” 

“Braz was on that detail; said they had a list from Fury himself.” Edwin shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t know any more than that, but you could ask for Javier Brazalman in security. He’d know.” 

“I’ll talk to him. Thanks.” 

Moving past them, Clint got to the doorway before Edwin spoke one last time. 

“Whatever they may be telling you, no one blames you. We all knew the risks when we signed onto S.H.I.E.L.D.; could have been any one of us in that room when the bastard came through. You need to know that.” 

Clint drew in a shaky breath as he fled without a response. 

**TWO DAYS LATER**

“It’s definitely meant to open something, but you need a password or key to get into it.” Natasha turned the card over in her hands. 

Clint shoveled another spoonful of kung pao pork into his mouth, chewed, then swallowed. “It’s bugging me, Nat. I’ve got no idea what it is or why he left it for me.” 

“Obviously, Phil assumed you’d be able to figure it out.” She swiped the last crab rangoon. “Maybe there’s a message in the book; did you check …” 

“It’s the same passages as before; nothing new underlined. I wrote all the words out, tried rearranging them; they make it look so easy in the movies, but I got nada.” A long swig of his beer and he was ready to finish off the last of the egg foo yung. “You can have a look, see what you think.” 

After two hot showers and a day and a half of sleep, Clint had been ready to deal with the stuff from Phil’s place. The jump drives were exactly what they appeared to be; backups of mundane paperwork and data from Phil’s computer. The calendar cipher was an old Howling Commandos one Phil had loved playing with, the entries travel itineraries and meetings going back two years; Clint recognized the S.H.I.E.L.D. numerical labeling system for a couple of missions they worked on together. Phil had been busy with three different projects that appeared repeatedly. That was probably what Nick wanted; Clint slipped it into a manilla envelope along with the drives just in case. 

But the key card remained a mystery. 

“You know what would make this a lot easier?” Natasha nudged Clint with her knee under the table. “The world’s fastest artificial intelligence. Bet J.A.R.V.I.S. could make short work of it.” 

“No.” Clint shook his head. “No way I’m letting Stark anywhere near this.” 

“He’s not that bad.” Natasha grimaced when Clint grinned at her. “And if you tell him that I’ll kill you slowly. But really, he cared about Phil in his own weird way, and J.A.R.V.I.S. liked Phil; he might do it without telling Tony.” 

“Since when did you change your opinion about Stark?” Clint asked between slurping up noodles. “And know J.A.R.V.I.S. liked Phil?” 

“Since I’ve been working with them both; you’ve missed a lot while you’ve been chasing leads around the world. Steve and Bruce are living at the Tower now and Stark’s digging into the W.S.C. too. Seems he took the nuke personally.” 

“Doesn’t matter. Phil left this to me for whatever God-forsaken reason, and I already let him down enough. Not going to share his secret message with everyone.” 

She sighed. “It’s high time to quit with the recriminations, don’t you think? This whole ‘I’m not worthy’ thing is getting old. You know I love you, but you can be so thick-headed.” 

“Says the woman who believes love is for everyone but her..” Clint pushed the half-full dumpling carton her way. “If Phil had known the truth, he wouldn’t have trusted me at all.” 

“You saw what you wanted to see in Phil,” she argued. “Just like he did in you.” 

“Don’t you start in on me too. Nick was bad enough, wanting me to go over there and face things. He’s the opposite of subtle.” Clint put down his chopsticks. “Yes, I screwed up with Phil. Yes, I don’t know how he would have handled it if I’d told him about my other identities. No, I don’t think he was perfect, just a damn amazing man who was far and away better than me. There. Can we move on to figuring this out please?” 

She looked right through Clint, aware his frontal assault was a redirection, seeing the turmoil of emotion he couldn’t hide. “Of course, Yastreb. I’ll get you in the Tower to talk to J.A.R.V.I.S. as soon as you accept my way is the best.” 

“I hate when you do that,” Clint groused. “Paint me into a corner.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy,” she replied with a smile. “Is tomorrow good?”

It was later that day when Clint entered a public restroom in Pret a Manger on the ground level of Stark Tower and started talking into thin air.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.? Are you listening?” 

“I am always monitoring the Tower, Agent Barton. How may I help you?” 

“Um, so I have this problem …” 

“Actually, that is one of my encryption cards,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said as soon as Clint removed the piece of plastic from his wallet. “Agent Coulson asked for my help in making it; I can partially unlock it for you, but your DNA is necessary to complete the data transfer.” 

“My DNA?” Clint felt silly, but at least he was getting some answers. 

“Agent Coulson was very specific in his instructions; I know only how you access the information.” 

“Wait, you don’t know what’s on it? What it opens?” 

“I do not. Agent Coulson believed you would understand how to use it further.” 

“Yeah, well, I wish I did.” Clint cursed under his breath. “Fine, let’s open this sucker at least. Maybe then I’ll get a clue.” 

“I’m transmitting the code now; when you are ready, your salvia will finish the activation.” 

“Saliva. Great, I’ve got to lick it?” Clint shook his head. “Jesus, Phil, this is the weirdest thing.” 

“If I may, I believe Agent Coulson wanted to ensure the highest level of security,” J.A.R.V.I.S. said. “Per his suggestion, I would advise you to wait to complete the process until you have left the building.” 

“Plausible deniability for you, eh?” Clint slipped the card back into his inner pocket. “Well, if Stark asks what this is all about, you can tell him I said to kiss my ass.” 

“I will quote you exactly,” the A.I. promised. 

Three subway stops, a train, a switchback, and four taxis later, Clint was in another bathroom stall, the one in the Brooklyn Shake Shack on Fulton Street, leaning against the tiled wall. 

“Okay, this isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve ever done,” he murmured just before he ran his tongue over first one then the other side of the plastic card. 

He’d had lots of time to think as he threw off any potential tails and had come up with three possible explanations for this strange scavenger hunt. First, he’d thought Phil might have left some sort of letter, love or hate, a final message just for him, but then he’d discarded that notion quickly. If Phil wanted to tell him something, Phil would have done it face-to-face. Taking the coward’s way out of confrontation was more Clint’s style. Besides, Phil’d gone to an awful lot of trouble to keep this secret and he’d been the one who didn’t mind PDAs around the office. Why bother hiding now? 

What he would stash out of sight were S.H.I.E.L.D. files, something confidential that was problematic or controversial. Wouldn’t be the first time double-agents or moles had made their way into the rank and file; he and Phil had taken down a particularly nasty gang in Eastern Europe who were trafficking women using S.H.I.E.L.D. resources. Maybe something bigger, that he’d only trust to Clint … and therein was the rub because, if it were S.H.I.E.L.D. related, Phil would have told Nick or Natasha or Melinda or Jasper. Leaving a cryptic trail of breadcrumbs that Clint might or might not find wasn’t how Phil would handle it.. 

No, that left only one option that made any sense at all and, as Clint watched the string of numbers appear on the face of the card, a hard lump settled in his gut. There was something Phil wanted him to know, something Phil couldn’t tell him in person, that he could only say after his death. A band of premonition tightened across Clint’s chest as he looked at a longitude and latitude address not more than a couple of hours’ drive. A safe house, he’d bet on it, where Phil’s hidden information lay waiting. 

He almost called Natasha, but didn’t. She was right; it was time to deal with this on his own. 

He started to drop by S.H.I.E.L.D., drop the envelope in Nick’s hands, ask him what he knew, but he didn’t. The man had sent him to Phil’s apartment on purpose, knowing what Clint would discover. Maybe Nick had a point; he was going to stop making assumptions. 

So he hit up a stash, rented a car under a fake name, and started driving west through Pennsylvania.. Got off the interstate and took winding back roads. Steered through a couple of snow squalls and stopped at the Thai Diner in Coplay to wait out a particularly bad one. Passed Williamsport and headed into the Susquehannock State Forest. Finally rocked up a rutted two-lane driveway to a log cabin off Right Hand Young Woman’s Creek Road, turned off the engine, and sat in the rapidly cooling car, staring at the quaint front porch with bird feeders and a pile of split wood. 

Half-expecting a laser grid or remote-controlled semi-automatics, Clint carefully climbed the steps and paused in front of the door with four beveled glass panels and a wrought-iron handle. It took him a minute to find the scanner hidden in the framing; one wave of the key and the lock clicked loudly, a green light flashing momentarily before going dark. 

Two steps in and he stopped. The smell of cedar filled the small living room, logs stacked in the freshly cleaned fireplace. Coffee machine on the counter, espresso maker next to it. Shelves in the corner, action figures on their stands and books arranged by genre and author. Framed collectibles and pins on the wall. A patchwork quilt on the bed in the loft upstairs, and a crocheted throw on the overstuffed chair by the hearth. 

“Phil?” Clint could barely put any volume in the word, pushing it past the lump in his throat. There was no response, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. 

A quick turn around the small space proved no one had been at home for days. The thermostat was set at sixty-four, water shut off and pipes wrapped, No perishables in the fridge or dirty laundry in the basket. Whoever lived here… and Clint was beyond suspicious at this point… had shuttered up for a lengthy departure. 

“Fury, you son-of-a-bitch. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

He stalked through bathroom. 

“Who’s idea was it? Yours or Phil’s?” 

Opened the back door. 

“Probably yours; Phil was too busy bleeding out,” 

Climbed the stairs to the loft. 

“And you needed him, didn’t you? The perfect cover.” 

Checked the drawers filled with sweaters and long sleeve t-shirts. 

“What did you have him doing, Nick?” 

Flung open the doors to the chifferobe. 

“Going deep? Being … Holy shit.” 

Clint stopped cold, hands pushing aside flannel shirts; in the back of the closet, guns hung on pegs beside a gleaming pair of wakizashi. Black kevlar and a maroon mask, one he’d encountered a number of times before. 

“Greggson?” Clint couldn’t believe it. 

One of the most feared mercenaries, once Greggson took a job, he always completed it, no matter what obstacles stood in his path. He only took on targets that were the worst of the worst and had no compunction about pulling the trigger when the moment came. Word was he’d taken out most of Kolinick’s operation on his own, had hamstrung two Mexican cartels in two days, and rescued a kidnapped diplomat’s daughter, leaving a house full of dead bodies as a message to those who might try again. Some of his kills were legendary and the number grew year-by-year; Greggson took on contracts that no one else would touch… well, no one but Ronin or Black Widow … no matter how powerful the person or how deep he had to delve into the darkness. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Clint wadded up the mask in his hand and pulled it free. “All this time you were… damn it, Phil, I almost killed you twice, you idiot. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” 

A blinking red light caught his eye; another security pad was in the back corner. He swiped the card again and a panel clicked open downstairs by the fireplace. Screens emerged, data projected into the air… maps, weather, intel… a digital bulletin board. A video window opened, and Phil’s face appeared next to a scrolling list of file names. 

“Clint.” 

The sound of Phil’s voice was a punch in the gut; the anger at discovering Phil’s secret disappeared in a flash. 

“Oh, God.” Clint sank down on the steps and watched. 

“If you’re seeing this, I’m dead … wow, that's a cliche, isn’t it?” 

Clint’s heart squeezed tight. 

“I should have told you so many times about this part of my life, but I was scared of how you’d react. I couldn’t ... “ Phil paused. “No, I’m not going to make excuses anymore. It’s my fault; I didn’t want to chance losing you, and instead I drove you away.”

“Jesus.” Clint dragged in a breath. 

“It’s just … I watched you pull yourself out of that life, take to S.H.I.E.L.D. like you were born to it, become so much more than that mercenary Nick took in off the street. Hell, Clint, you’re on the shortlist for the Avengers Initiative. And here I am, still the same son-of-a-bitch as always, doing what needs to be done no matter the cost. God, I didn’t want that cost to be you, so I kept my mouth shut, tried to be a better man so I’d deserve you and look where that got us” 

“You are a good man Phil. None of this would have mattered,” Clint said to the image.

“Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered,” Phil continued, “but I just couldn’t take that risk. I love you too damn much. I need you to know that; I’ve never stopped and I never will. But I am who I am and this is all of me, laid out for you to see in its bloodstained glory. So I made this card, gave it to Nick for safekeeping … yeah, he knows, has always known … and I hope you can eventually forgive me.” 

“We are fucking idiots, Phil.” 

The video jumped; Phil’s clothing changed and the camera angle shifted. 

“Clint, I don’t have much time; Loki has you under some sort of spell and I don’t know what’s going to happen next. There’s data on the system here that Nick needs to see; I don’t trust the Council but it’s more than that. There’s something rotten at S.H.I.E.L.D., dug in deep. Been slowly tracking it over the last few Greggson jobs …” His head turned as if he was listening to something off-screen. “I have to go; Loki’s not going to get away with this.” He gave that little half-smile, the goofy one that made the corner of his eye wrinkle. “Even if we’re not together, I can’t live in a world without you, I’m going to do whatever it takes to get you back.”

The screen went blank. 

Clint curled his back, rested his head on his knees, and let himself cry. 

Then he stood up, walked the rest of the way down to the screen and got started. 

He had a lot of work to do. 

**THREE WEEKS LATER**

“... intruder in the north corridor! I repeat, we have an intruder in the north …” 

The P.A. system crackled then cut out completely as Clint slipped through the window and into a supply closet. Footsteps sounded outside as men answered the claxon call; he waited until the second contingency passed before cracking the door and easing his way out into the corridor of the old bank. The emergency lights created pockets of bright glare and pools of dark where his dark suit blended in. Room by room, he found empty spaces, hastily left cups of coffee and scattered paperwork. He ducked into a bathroom to avoid a third set of heavily armed guards then ghosted by the open doors of what used to the vault but now was filled with all sorts of equipment and a nasty looking restraining chair. 

“Is the asset secured?” asked a man in an expensive suit. “Tell me you didn’t activate it?”

“No, no, we didn’t have time …” the man in the lab coat answered as they rounded the far corner. 

He turned left and followed his instincts towards the loading dock, staying out of sight until he came to the exit. Standing with his gun raised, Brock Rumlow had his back towards the hallway, facing the man with the large metal cylinder on a dolly. 

“Greggson.” Rumlow’s muzzle never wavered. “This is above your pay grade. Leave it and walk away; it’s not worth getting dead over.” 

“Really?” Voice modulated to a different pitch, Phil cocked his head and stared at Rumlow. “The head of S.H.I.E.L.D. Strike Team protecting an old H.Y.D.R.A. asset? That sounds like something people would pay a lot to know. Curious, really. Is your whole team rotten or just the ones here with you?” 

“I gave you a chance,” Rumlow growled. “For Mazatlan. That’s all you get.” 

Rollins and Jenkins and Portman came around one side of the waiting truck: Slovosky, Baerl and Minse from the other. 

“Too bad,” Rumlow said as he squeezed the trigger. 

The shot went wide: swords arced, catching the light and slicing through Rumlow’s flesh and bone, separating his head from his body. Spinning, Clint took the ones on the left, blades dancing as he dispatched them in an intricate series of moves, their bodies falling with little sound. When he turned, Phil held his own swords at the ready, protecting the cylinder. 

“Ronin,” Phil said. “If you’re working for them …” 

“I’m not. This is me, doing whatever I have to do to get you back.” Clint lowered his weapons. “I don’t want to live in a world without you.” 

Phil sucked in a quick breath. “You …” 

Clint glanced at the door, heard the sounds of pursuit.“Yeah, explanations later. Right now, let’s get this into the truck and get the hell out of there.” 

Phil sheathed his swords and grabbed the dolly handle. “I take it our mutual friend jumped the gun.” 

“Technically he didn’t” Clint helped him maneuver into the back then looked down. “Holy hell, talk about people coming back from the dead. It really is him.”

A bullet bounced off the truck doors as Phil swung them closed; he paused long enough to kiss Clint hard on the lips then made a beeline for the driver’s seat. “This is just the tip of the iceberg..” 

Clint swung into the passenger side, barely buckling his seatbelt before Phil took the first turn at way too high a speed. 

“Then, together, let’s see how deep this rabbit hole goes, shall we?” 

  
  
  


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End file.
